I have something to confess: I am procrastinator. I hate taking my car to the mechanic because I’m afraid they’ll find something wrong. I hate doing my taxes because I fear I’ll owe a lot of money. And I hate going to the doctor because I’m afraid they’ll find something wrong with me.
But I’m a dad now, so it’s time that I grow up. When I was in my 20s I could just skate by and feel invincible like life was going to go on forever. Now that I am a dad I have so much more on the line. I have to be healthy for myself, my wife, and my four kids. Look at us in the picture. So happy. Healthy. The world is our oyster. Continue reading
NOTE: This post was originally published at OnFaith. You can read the full piece here. It’s such a weird thing to share intimate details of your baby delivery with the world and readers you’ve never met. But it’s such an interesting story and gave me thoughts about human life and politics and how we all come into the world.
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I was dead asleep when my wife whispered, “Honey it’s time.” She was 38 weeks pregnant. We were waiting for this baby like born-again Christians wait for the rapture. It could come at any day, any moment.
“Contractions?” I asked. She answered, “Three in the last 20 minutes.” This was our fourth child, but my first time waking up in the middle of the night to go to the hospital. I’d like to say I sprang out of bed, called the doctor, and rounded up the kids to go to grandma and grandpas. But things were slower. Groggier. In real life, I’m never quite the action hero I am in my head.
My voice shook as we made a plan of action. It was embarrassing. I felt like newbie parent. My wife clutched the bathroom counter in pain. Another contraction.
By the time we got to the hospital, my wife’s contractions were so bad she could barely walk. It was 3 am and the emergency room was dark and abandoned. Two security guards were lit by the bluish glow of an iPad…
To continue reading my OnFaith article click here.
Once upon a time there was a world where kings with no understanding of human biology would divorce and/or behead their wives for not bearing them sons. The pendulum has swung completely the other way and we now live in a selfless age of parenting where we try our hardest not to project our desires for our kids. We lie to ourselves saying the only thing that matters is their health and happiness.
But when I’m honest, I tell people I wanted a boy. Continue reading
The first thing people say when they see me with my daughters, “I hope you’re saving up for all of those weddings.” The second, “Start polishing that shotgun to fend off those boys.” People say these two things to me at church, in the supermarket, while I’m pushing my kids on the playground swings—if it’s a public place, I need to be ready for the shotgun conversation. Sometimes I consider what these strangers are actually telling me to do. Am I supposed to open fire fourteen year olds with a sawed-off shotgun when they start bringing flowers and candies to my daughters? Or is it just supposed to be an empty threat like the parent who always sternly counts down, “3-2-1” but never actually disciplines his child.
If you’re anything like me you’ve nearly unfollowed a lot of people because they’ve posted too many Instagrams of their kids. I get it. Your kids are cute. I can’t believe they just said that and this moment was so amazing. But sometimes I catch myself thinking: Do I really have to see so many pictures of your kids? You were my friend once upon a time and I don’t even know what you look like anymore.
Then I looked at my feed and it was the same as yours. Kid pictures everywhere. My Instagram album looks like a preschool yearbook. Our kids are the most photographed generation of all time as if we’re making animated flip-books of their childhood. They will have no problems with paparazzi when they grow up because they had the paparazzi as parents. Our kids think it’s completely normal to take a bath and have that picture end up the internet.
If you’re anything like me and trying to figure out why this phenomenon is happening I’m going to explain it here…
1) Saturday Mornings Were Epic
We had no Netflix. No DVR. If we were lucky we had a worn out VHS tape with old He-Man episodes. But in the 1980’s Saturday mornings were a holiday. Children across America would wake up, fill giant ceramic bowls with Lucky Charms, and watch cartoons from 6am until noon. We invented binge watching.
There is no exact name for this problem: Basement zombies. Football widows. I’m married to a great man for 7 months of the year and then football season starts and our weekends disappear. Bottom line: The return of football season can cause problems for married couples.
A few weeks ago I talked about how watching the Bachelorette makes me a better husband. One reader asked if I’d create a similar guide for women watching football. Before I go any further I need to say I have a bunch of daughters and I’m trying to be a better feminist everyday. I know a lot of women who love football. I play in fantasy football leagues where women outsmart me on waiver wires and destroy my teams on Sundays. So if you already love football and your husband loves football, rejoice. This post is not for you.
But football season is a tension in your home and your marriage then listen up because I’ve got something to say. Here are some ground rules.